


All That Glitters is Not Gold

by blueeyesbunny



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 08:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4558287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueeyesbunny/pseuds/blueeyesbunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Samahla Lavellan is haunted by memories of her trip into the future. Blackwall offers comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Glitters is Not Gold

**Author's Note:**

> I always found it curious that the Inquisitor was sent to a hellish future where she witnessed the deaths of her close companions and literally saw the world ending, and upon her return everything was fine and dandy. No one ever came to check on her or anything. Just thinking about it gave me nightmares! She would surely be at least be somewhat bothered by the whole scenario. This is my attempt to address the lack of in game acknowledgement. I hope you enjoy it! :)

Varric's warning buzzed in her ears. For months he'd been pushing them to make red lyrium a priority, to investigate it's source, or even just to discover an easier means of locating and destroying it. But it was only one more thing added to the mounting list of things that they had to deal with. Each time it came up in the War Room they pushed it off for discussion at a later time. 

Why hadn't they listened? Why hadn't they listened? 

Samahla now stood in a sea of the stuff, knee deep in water tinted pink, sharp red edges jutting from the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Torchlight danced through the room, and for a moment she could see nothing but red. The crystals and their hazy reflections seemed to be closing in on her. The acrid air burned her throat and lungs. Her heart pounded in her chest. Where was this place? How had she gotten here? She frantically looked for an exit, pushing past her revulsion and reaching out to touch the crystals that lined the walls. She tried to ignore the fact that they were warm. There had to be a gap somewhere, a space she could squeeze through. Finding it was all that mattered. 

Metal bars rose up from some of the formations, a souvenir from a time when this place had been something other than a red lyrium farm. Grasping at this fact, Samahla reasoned that if it had been a jail, she should move away from the bars. The exit would be somewhere at the other end of the room. She wasn't trapped. She wasn't. 

The water made it impossible to run, but she tried, pushing as quickly as she could. Jagged crystals cut into her feet and calves until her legs burned and ached. It didn't matter. All that mattered was finding the exit to this ghastly place. When she finally reached the far end of the room she began feeling along the wall of crystal with hands that shook. There had to be an opening! Shadows and red light made her vision crawl. Fear scratched in her chest like a small animal. She pushed on the crystals, beat them with her fist. She suppressed the urge to scream, feeling along the floor in a last ditch hope that there would be a gap. She froze as her hand met with empty space. Kneeling she shoved her arm back, feeling around desperately. Nothing blocked her movement. The hole seemed to be about two feet across and not much taller. It was deeper than her arm was long. But, she couldn't feel air, only water enclosed by crystal. Panic and indecision warred in her. This was her only means to try and escape, but what kind of opportunity was it? Swimming through a shallow tunnel, surrounded on all sides by red lyrium. Dim prospect though it was, it took only a moment to decide. 

Carefully placing her hands along the edges of the tunnel she tried to take a deep breath. She should have calmed her breathing, done a few experimental trips to test the depth, but she couldn't bring herself to delay. She couldn't wait. Sucking in what air she could, she plunged in, using the jagged walls of the tunnel to pull herself forward. Kicking and dragging, heedless of the cuts and bruises she was inflicting, she made progress. One body length, two and then four passed by. When she'd gone nearly six body lengths the tunnel suddenly contracted around her. With a sharp jerk she became entangled in the rocks, bubbles escaping from her mouth in a plume. Her lungs began to burn. Would this be her death? It felt as though Fen'Harel's hand was on her throat, his laughter in her ear as he watched her die in this grotesque trap. She twisted and kicked against the crystals, looking for some kind of hold to help break free. Gaining traction, she ripped through the cloth which held her back and surged forward. The surface came unexpectedly and she broke through choking and coughing. Gasping for air, she crawled from the pit of water. 

Cool air washed over her. Despite the oppressive smell, it was a sweet relief. As she struggled to recover, to pull enough air into her lungs, the Anchor flickered to life, giving her enough light to see her surroundings. Overcome with relief, Samahla forced herself to stand. She needed to figure out where she was. Holding her hand aloft, she found herself in another long stone room, though this one had far fewer red lyrium formations. At the far end she could just make out a door, and she hurried to it. The exit shouldn't be far. But the door stuck when she tried to open it. The wood was swollen. Planting her feet, she grabbed the metal handle firmly and pulled. It moved, but not by much. Her arms ached terribly, but she pulled again. This was her only way out. She was rewarded with another few centimeters. Growling, she yanked the door as hard as she could. It gave way with a loud groan, swinging toward her. 

Her heart sank. There was no exit. Behind the door was a dead end. Instead of another passage, she found herself staring into a full length mirror. The light from her hand illuminated her reflection in sickening detail. What clothing remained on her was tattered and torn. Her body was covered in raw wounds that gaped through the holes. They no longer hurt, or even bled. Instead, they oozed glittering bits of red lyrium. Her hole body shimmered. The green glow began to waver as crystals crept up her palm. Her eyes were like crimson jewels. 

She woke with the echo of her own screams buzzing in the air, hands pulling at her body. She was being pulled down, suffocated. 

“No!” She struggled against this unknown assailant, pushing hard to dislodge herself. The hands disappeared, but she was still tangled in cloth. Ripping herself free, she fell to the floor, scrabbling backward until she bumped up against a wall. Where was she? Was this some agent of the red templars? The pounding of her heart and her heavy breathing was all that she could hear. 

Moments passed. Her eyes began to adjust. Incrementally, her heart slowed. She could see her bed, her desk. The room smelled familiar, of Elfroot and cedar. This was her room, her space. This was Skyhold. It was not the foul dungeon of Alexius. She was safe. 

Blackwall sat on the edge of the bed, watching her with concern. “My lady?” he questioned, voice rough with sleep. 

She stood, and then swayed for a moment as her body adjusted. He reached to steady her, but she turned away. Memories from that night in the dungeon began to surface in her mind, unbidden and unwanted. Blackwall's face, haggard and scarred, eyes covered in a milky pink haze. Crystals had jutted from his shoulders, his back, his hips. His hands had been rough with them. Still, he had wielded his sword valiantly for her. And he had died for her. His body had lain there in the eerie glow of the Breach, broken and punctured, but without blood. All the blood had been taken from him by then. 

“No, no, no.” She fled from him. Blindly she pushed open the glass doors and ran to the balcony. The cold, mountain air was like a slap to the face. She leaned on the railing and breathed deeply. Focusing on nothing but the cold, she tried to empty her mind. The biting air slowly chased the nightmarish haze away. 

None of it was true. It wasn't real. It hadn't happened. 

He was alive. 

She could hear him approaching her slowly. Such a stalwart presence in the dark, he would wait as long as she needed. As the nightmare receded, she returned to herself, feeling raw and fragile. Feeling more composed, she turned to face him. He stood several paces away, hands spread to show that he meant no harm. His dark eyes were pained. He didn't know whether he was welcome yet or not.

This wasn't the first time, though it was the first in a long while. It had happened more often right after their time in Redcliffe. Now she would go six or eight weeks between episodes. Each one felt more terrible than the last though. She would be on edge for days, and it would be a week or more before she slept well again. Even so, she knew these episodes were nearly as hard for him as they were for her. He felt immense guilt that she'd suffered such a trauma while he'd stood by in safety. He wanted to share the burden, but there was no way of sharing such an awful experience. No one could understand what had transpired without having seen if first hand. None of it was his fault, nor could he have acted differently to change the outcome, but it remained true and they both knew it. Still, he carried his guilt and his worry long after she'd recovered.

She went to him, sinking into his arms and feeling broken. “Ma vhenan, ir abelas,” she whispered, voice rough.

He held her gently, one of his large calloused hands rubbing slow circles on her back. He smelled of leather and sun. His chest hair was rough against her face and his beard tickled her ear. All of it was familiar, comforting. 

“I keep thinking I'm through with all of this,” she said, voice muffled against his chest. 

“Love, some wounds run so deep that they never really go away,” he said, softly. “There's no shame in that.” 

He spoke from a place of experience. Some might not have found this comforting, but it was grounding to hear this admission. She wasn't the only one who had nights like this. Did everyone harbor such demons? Did Cassandra wake in the night with her brother's name on her lips? Was Cullen haunted by those little vials of lyrium? 

He seemed to sense her unease and he stepped back, ready to give her whatever space she needed. She clung to him though, as needy now as she had been fearful minutes ago. Understanding, his arm once again settled around her. Keeping her close, he pulled the doors closed and then lifted her into his arms. Instead of returning to the bed, he carried her to the couch. Sinking back into the pillows, he let her get comfortable on his chest and then pulled a thick blanket over them.

She thanked the Creators, or the Maker, or whoever cared to listen, for his care and devotion. He was such a warm and comforting presence. Both physically and emotionally. Whatever anyone said about him or his past, he had never wavered from her side. 

“What about a story, then?” he asked, voice rumbling against her. 

“Mhmm,” she mumbled, feeling both physically drained and wide awake. 

“Have I ever told you why I decided to grow a beard?” 

She giggled. This had become a running gag between them. He'd produced at least a half dozen “reasons” so far. His hair was a source of great delight for her, and her delight was a source of great amusement for him. She responded as she always did. 

“Beard? You mean that isn't a squirrel?” 

They both laughed softly, before he launched into a tale about a deserted island and a Pirate Queen who only transported passengers in possession of full beards. Neither of them slept again that night, but when the sun finally rose, all traces of the nightmare were gone, replaced with bawdy chuckles and good humor.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
